


Nightmares

by TheIcyQueen



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Angst, Gen, No Spoilers, Pre-Kingdom Hearts III, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, not entirely canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 13:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17705561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIcyQueen/pseuds/TheIcyQueen
Summary: The one-time Apprentices have returned to their home in much the same way their hearts have returned their chests. But they've seen too much, they've experienced too much, and things will never quite be the same again. It's easy enough to play off in the daytime hours...at night, it becomes more difficult.





	Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt fill for 3ternal3nigma on tumblr! Written WAY before KH3 came out, so bear that in mind ;)

**_I._ **

They awake in the small hours—the inscrutable time where it’s impossible to parse whether they’re closer to night or day—to the sound of screaming. There isn’t time to think, there isn’t even time to _listen_ , there is only time to react, and so they jump from their respective beds; one stumbles, one all but flies with fear, and one charges with weapon in hand.

It isn’t until their doors are open that they recognize the shrill shriek for what it truly is—a brutal gale of wind whistling through the narrow corridors. Only Aeleus is strong enough to keep his bedroom door from slamming back in his face, though he still spares a quick glance to the other side of the hall where twin slams are punctuated by twin thumps as Ienzo and Even prove too weak.

There is one of their number who is conspicuously absent amid the squall.

Aeleus forces his way forward, presses himself flat to the walls as he sidles to the fourth door, and begins to pound with all his might. There is a long moment where he feels his footing begin to slide, feels the wind shoving the mass of his body like some thug picking a fight—and then, as suddenly as it begun, it ends. The sudden shift in pressure leaves him feeling choked, almost strangled, as though all the air had been vacuumed out around him.

After a beat, the door swings outward. Dilan appears, disheveled and disoriented, eyes open but only half-seeing.   
  
_**II.**_  
  
It’s not all at once that they wake up, rather, it’s Dilan who seems to notice first. He’s startled from his sleep as though by a crack of thunder, but as he strains his ears, he’s met with nothing but silence. As the sleep begins to trickle away from him, his awareness returns, and it’s then that he realizes what’s amiss.

In front of him, his breath plumes in great, thick clouds. He inhales sharply and the sheer chill of the air sends daggers throughout his chest; he’s coughing and coughing and coughing, but the cold is so intense that his throat almost won’t allow him to draw in another breath.

He can barely make out the geography of his room by the light of the moon, which is strange in and of itself until his vision sharpens and he sees the frost. It’s crept across the panes in thick, skeletal veins, splitting out into fractals—delicate but barbed. And as he steps out of bed, his bare feet find that it has spread like some sort of translucent ivy, crisscrossing his floor, his walls, the bedside table; in his surprise he knocks over a forgotten glass of water and it topples to the floor, shattering but not spilling, instead sending shards of glass and ice clattering across the room.

There’s a dull stabbing sensation in the sole of his foot as he steps on something frigid, and he knows that once he thaws out it will blossom into something pointed and painful. His footing slips, but he catches himself against his door. The knob sticks no matter how hard he turns it, and he suspects that it, too, is frozen. He jams his shoulder into the door with all his might but it does not budge, likely swollen in its frame. “ _EVEN!_ ” he shouts instead, chest straining against the chill, ears ringing as he absolutely _decimates_ the silence of the Castle. And then again, for good measure, “ _EVEN!_ ”

From somewhere down the hall, muted by walls and doors, there is a sound. It’s small, but it’s there. The next moment, the ice begins to sweat, begins to drip, begins to run, and Dilan finds he can breathe again.

The door opens more readily now, and he pushes his way into the hall, acutely aware of the smear of blood he brings with him. In the middle of the corridor—in front of _Ienzo’s_ door, his brain notes with a bitter note of specificity—Aeleus and Ienzo shiver. There’s a strange, uncomfortable clicking sound that appears to be Ienzo’s chattering teeth; there are small patches of frost dusting the tips of Aeleus’s hair, aging him prematurely. They both look _exceedingly_ unhappy as they exchange looks with Dilan.

They turn to train their eyes on Even’s door, waiting for him to appear, waiting for him to explain himself, but he never does.   
  
_**III.**_

Sans decorum, sans warning, Even is flung from his bed. He makes an indignant sound as he collapses somewhere between his bedframe and the wall—or at least he _thinks_ he does. He had only just entered deep sleep, and being jarred so suddenly from it has dulled his ability to think. All he knows is that he _was_ in bed, but now he is _not_ ; he _was_ asleep, but now he is painfully awake.

Emphasis on “ _painfully_.”

He tries to get to his feet but finds that he can’t. For a moment, he is seized by both terror and an endless mental scroll of degenerative diseases. It isn’t until the lamp standing less than a yard from him is sent careening into the opposite wall that he makes the connection—the problem lies not in his own foundation, but the very foundation of the Castle itself.

Again, he tries to right himself, knowing full well that it’s a futile fight. But already he can hear the warning squeal of metal straining, can see the heavy frame of his bed inching towards him, and can see the disaster happening in his mind’s eye. His sense of balance is gone as the floor dips and bobs beneath him, but the _real_ panic doesn’t set in until a fine mist of dust begins to rain down from the ceiling. Then he watches with wide eyes and bated breath as a crack starts in the far corner of the ceiling, spreading and widening and slicing its way down towards his window.

Then the Castle seems to _jump_ below him, and he’s sent flying again, crashing like a rag doll against his door frame. Moments later, an aftershock sends his bedframe _shooting_ across the room, smashing into the wall he’d only just been thrown from. There’s a final, weak rumble, and then it’s over; he can hear the Castle groan and moan as it settles back into itself, its bones creaking and thrumming like his own.

By the time his legs have stopped shaking enough to support his weight, Aeleus is at his door, looking tired and sheepish and offering to help fix what can be salvaged.  
  
 _ **IV.**_

There is someone standing over his bed.

Ienzo doesn’t just suspect it; he _knows_.

The figure is dark and opaque but also swirling like fog. Its eyes gleam orange and red and yellow in turn, burning like hellfire, glowing like embers. It had started off in the corner of the room, couched in shadow, and he had watched, unable to move, as it took step after quiet step towards him. It brought with it the smell of carrion and vomit, acidic but sweet in a cloying, horrible sort of way.

Behind the thing, the walls have begun to melt. The colors run and swirl like watercolors, warping the frame of his window, the lines of his bookshelves, the very shape of the room itself. The roof has disintegrated and he can see the sky beyond it, black and endless, gaping like the hungry mouth of a starving predator. Even as he looks, he thinks he can see teeth beginning to form where the rafters once were, dripping frothing saliva like rain.

He can’t take his eyes away from it, and knows implicitly that if he does, he will most certainly die. His breath is lead in his chest, there are cords standing out on his neck, he can feel the burn of a scream somewhere locked in his throat. He can’t move his arms or his legs or even open his mouth to call to the others.

The thing creeps over him, and he can feel the mattress dip under its weight. Impossible as it is, he can still see its outline perfectly against the void of the sky, can see its shape glimmer in a way that is almost opalescent. He is powerless to watch as it reaches out with hands hands hands too many hands, wrapping tens of hundreds of fingers around his throat, choking off what little air there was left in the room, and then—

With a start, he sits up. His hands are pressed to his collarbone, and he can feel his heart racing; he thinks it might break through his ribs. The feeling is still new to him, still alien, so he keeps his palms flush against his skin until he feels the rhythm begin to slow again.

 _I had a nightmare_ , he thinks to himself, and cringes internally. It was hours before he found himself falling back into a restless sleep, and even then, he finds himself wondering whether the knot in his stomach is from how childish the revelation feels to him, or how _deeply_ he doubts the truth in it.

 


End file.
